


Attend the Tale

by blueink3



Series: Screw Your Courage [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Theatre, Angst, Broadway, Established Relationship, Fluff, John is stubborn, M/M, Mollstrade, Musical References, New York City, Old Married Couple, POV Alternating, Parentlock, References to Shakespeare, Sherlock is an ass, Smut, They're still idiots make no mistake, they are stupidly in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-15 01:16:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14780882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueink3/pseuds/blueink3
Summary: John and Sherlock's return to the New York stage proves more difficult than originally thought as they try to balance two dream roles with the demands of marriage and family, the machinations of exes long thought gone, and press that they just can't seem to get on their side.





	Attend the Tale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SinceWhenDoYouCallMe_John](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinceWhenDoYouCallMe_John/gifts).



> This is a sequel to To The Sticking Place and and if you haven't read the stories in that series (particularly Hushabye Mountain, the second chapter of which takes place directly before this), I guarantee that things are going to be a tad confusing. #Broadway

His tux is pressed, his bow tie is straight, and his shoes are shined.

Now if only he could find his other sock.

Sherlock picks up the bubble-wrapped skull and places it in the open box at his feet as he listens to his husband and son upstairs, negotiating which of Liam’s numerous toys will end up making the eventual move to New York. It’s a daily battle and, by the sounds of it, John is rapidly losing:

_“Love, do you really need three Paddington Bears on the plane?”_

_“Daddy, he’ll get_ **_lonely_** _.”_

It’s John’s own fault, Sherlock thinks. He buys Liam and Lu a new Paddington every time he travels, despite the fact that Liam could form a football team with the ones he already has and Lu outgrew stuffed animals last year (or so she claims).

John will relent, he always does, and they’ll end up paying extra for another suitcase full of the spoils Liam has won through his verbal sparring. They’re not sure what he’ll grow up to be yet - astronaut is the current winner - but he’d make a fine Shakespearean actor. Or politician.

Sherlock grunts as he looks under his husband’s chair and lets out a muttered, “a-ha!” as he finds the wayward silk sock. He has his son to thank for that, no doubt - he does so hate when they go out for a night on the town and leave him behind. Sherlock makes his way over to the sofa and curses as he steps on a (thankfully) plastic vial, hopping on one foot as he bends and scoops the offending item up before placing it with its brethren on the table in the sitting room.

“Liam! I asked you to put your chemistry set away and I’m 99.57% sure your chemistry set does not live on the coffee table!”

There’s a crash upstairs followed by a semi-contrite, “Yes, Papa!”

John remains silent - no quip, no snappy remark - just one more reminder that the conversation they began weeks ago was by no means conclusive. It began the night John returned from his last minute trip to New York, called away by Harry and Clara because their daughter had started growing up, had started asking questions, and John being John had the answers. ( _"Lu’s asked about her father.”_ ) Sherlock booked him on the next flight out of Heathrow and he returned with a newfound sense of self, yes, but also with a job offer that would inevitably upend every careful plan they had made for themselves. Every rule they had tried so hard to follow when Liam came into their lives.

And now here they are, with Sherlock trying to remember where he put his shoes, John hiding in their son’s bedroom, and a car waiting to take them to the Olivier Awards idling downstairs.

Perfect.

_Five Weeks Earlier_

Sherlock squints even in the relatively low onstage lighting provided by the actual candles flickering around him as he takes in the applauding crowd. Three-quarters are standing and the remaining quarter can sod off, but knowing that his fellow countrymen aren’t exactly known for their exuberance and that Marlowe certainly isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, he’ll take what he can get.

His costar Gemma squeezes his hand as she stands next to him before letting go so they can make their way offstage. He blinks a few times to adjust to the dark and automatically holds his hand out so his dresser, Timothy, can toss a towel for him to wipe his sweaty face. It’s a well-worn routine by now after three months of performances, and it must be working, too, considering Sherlock just received his fifth Olivier nomination the day prior. It was disappointing to not have John with him to share in the good news but they’ll celebrate soon enough.

He catches sight of the clock on the wall (22:34) and lengthens his stride to his dressing room to check his mobile. He had gotten a text from John as he was boarding and, given wind currents and troublesome weather out of JFK, he knows that he must be nearly home.

Which is why he’s so totally shocked when he throws his dressing room door open to find his husband standing there, looking utterly wrecked and absolutely beautiful.

John startles as the door swings back, bag still hiked over his shoulder, and then groans, letting the duffle drop by his side as he stumbles forward and buries his face in Sherlock’s chest.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock blurts, arms coming up to wrap around him as he vaguely registers Timothy shutting the door behind him to give them some semblance of privacy from the busy corridor.

“Missed you,” John mumbles, words muffled by the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt.

“The feeling’s mutual,” he replies, pressing a kiss on his head.

John sighs, the tension leaving his shoulders as he sinks further into Sherlock’s embrace. His costume is disgusting but his husband doesn’t seem to mind as his fingers grip his damp back, lifting up to press his nose into that spot where Sherlock’s neck meets his shoulder. “Figured Liam would be asleep already. I just… wanted to see you.”

Sherlock hums and presses another kiss to his head, more thrilled than he’ll ever let on that John is here because John, though humble, has an actor’s ego. He just tames it better than most.

“How are they?”

“The girls?” John clarifies as he pulls far enough away to see his face. “Good. Great.”

“Did you sleep?”

John shrugs and allows Sherlock to usher him to the small sofa in the room and gently push him onto it. “I don’t think I ever allowed myself to get on New York time. To be perfectly frank, I don’t even know what day it is.”

“Wednesday. A perfectly tedious day,” Sherlock says as he begins to strip his costume so Timothy can do his job.

John chuckles, a low, throaty thing, and it’s a sound that Sherlock has missed over the past forty-eight hours.

“Mrs. Hudson sent me a video at the interval of our son snoring into a jumper of yours, so I think it’s safe to say he’s missed you too.” Silence hovers but it has weight as their eyes meet in the mirror. There are things to talk about, so he turns to meet his husband’s gaze full-on and sighs. “I’m going to shower because I’m positively disgusting and then you are going to tell me all about the show you’re going to take.”

“Sherlock - ”

“Don’t argue,” he says as he wings his towel over his shoulder and decidedly _doesn’t_ strut to the en suite. “And there better be Schmackary’s in that carry on!”

He hears John’s chuckle even over the groan of the pipes as he turns the shower on and waits for it to warm. John follows him into the tiny loo and presses a kiss to Sherlock’s bare back before sitting on the closed lid of the toilet.

“Care to join?” Sherlock asks cheekily and John looks tempted for a moment, but proceeds to close his eyes and rest his head against the wall.

“I don’t need your cast detailing our dressing room trysts, thank you very much,” he grumbles. “You’ve got gossips.”

“Oh Gemma’s not that bad,” Sherlock replies, dropping his pants and stepping behind the curtain.

“Not Gemma. Arthur, the old git. Remember, I did Much Ado with him. Secrets were around the park and back before you could say, ‘places.”

Sherlock is silent for a moment, letting the hot water soothe his aching muscles as he gets a cloth and a bar of soap to wipe away the kind of grime only three hours of Christopher Marlowe can cause. “So…” he begins, “tell me about it.”

“About what?”

He sticks his head out of the curtain and glares. “Don’t be obtuse. When does it start?”

John sighs. “Rehearsals begin in September. Opening in November - just before Thanksgiving, I believe.”

“That works. We could start Liam in school in the fall.” He turns his face into the spray, opens his mouth to gather some water, and then spits it out. “Who’s directing?"

“Victor Trevor,” John replies and Sherlock can feel himself blanch as a name he hasn’t heard in quite some time echoes in his ears.

“Oh?” His voice is strangled and he knows it, but he’s hoping his jet-lagged husband blames it on the acoustics of the loo -

But of course he doesn’t.

“What’s this? What’s wrong with Victor Trevor?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock replies, but the curtain is swift to be pulled back and there John stands in all his skeptical glory.

“I’m considering signing away over three months of my life to this man. And potentially putting my career in his hands. Spit it out.”

Sherlock shifts his weight on his feet and stares at the water swirling around the drain. “We had a… dalliance.”

John’s eyebrows fly up. “A dalliance? I thought you’d never been kissed offstage.” It sounds more hurt than he probably means it to, and Sherlock desperately wants to reach out to him but is also mindful of the water they’re currently getting all over the floor.

“I hadn’t. Not really.”

“Not really,” John repeats. “I don’t know what that means.”

Sherlock groans and runs his hands over his face, wiping the wetness from his eyes. He’d really rather not be doing this here - he’d rather be home and preferably clothed - but the vein in John’s forehead tells him he’s not going anywhere. “It means we had a mutual infatuation back when I first came to the city, but didn’t act on it. He pecked me on the lips once, but it wasn’t a proper… you know,” he fumbles. “It wasn’t what we do.”

“Ah,” John says, shifting. “Okay. Well, would you have a problem with me doing a show with him?”

“No,” he blurts, probably a little too quickly, so he counters: “Would _you_ have a problem doing a show with him?”

“No.”

“You sure?” Sherlock teases, reaching out to grab John by the jumper and pull him against his naked, damp chest. “I am rather fond of your jealous streaks.”

John groans and tilts his head up for a kiss, letting his hands wander down Sherlock’s back before grabbing a firm hold on the arse he loves to worship. “Take me home and then to bed, you menace.”

He grins, victory won, and murmurs, “God’s will, my liege.”

He towels off and gets dressed, allowing John to sneak out the side and wait in the car as he signs programs for those still waiting at the stage door. But the feeling in the pit of his gut, the unease that sprang when John mentioned the name Victor Trevor, still lingers long after they drive off into the night.

_Now_

John tugs at the collar of his tux before reaching forward and lifting Liam off the suitcase where the boy had been sitting so John could zip it closed. Sherlock is always more comfortable in these penguin suits than he is, more accustomed to the pomp and circumstance required by some of the events in their industry, not the least of which is the Olivier Awards.

He stands and glances around the room - at the detritus moving causes - and sighs, straightening his waistcoat and trying to remember if the cufflinks he wants to wear are in the dish on the dresser in their bedroom.

“And I really can’t come?” the boy whines, toying with the luggage tag that clearly states _Liam Watson-Holmes_.

“Love, we’ve talked about this.”

“But I’ll be really good! I promise!”

John sighs again and focuses on his son, bending down and pressing a kiss on his dark curls. “You’re always good. But tonight is for adults. Maybe when you’re older you can come to one of these, but you’ll disappoint Abby if you bail on your Toy Story marathon.”

Liam executes a perfectly Sherlockian eyeroll and slides off the bed, stumbling a bit as his little feet hit the floor. John rights him and crouches down, bringing himself eye level with those blue orbs which are so like his husband’s.

“You know I’d rather be home with you, right?”

Liam looks down and his lower lip wobbles a bit so John leans forward, pressing their noses together.

“Do you think I actually _like_ wearing this?” he asks, tugging at the collar around his neck, which draws a giggle from the boy in front of him. “Do you think it’s fun, huh?” he growls, burying his face in Liam’s neck and tickling him, pulling a shriek and a giggle from his son as he squirms in his arms.  

“Daddy, no!” More shrieks and giggles that have John laying Liam on the floor and blowing a raspberry on his stomach where his shirt has ridden up.

“You think I don’t care about Woody and Buzz Lightyear too?”

“Daddy, stop!”

“All right, all right,” John laughs, leaning back and pulling the boy with him, settling him on his lap.

“You don’t have to come,” a voice murmurs from the doorway and John glances up to find his husband staring at him with a crease of hurt between his brows.  

“Of course I’m coming,” John quietly replies, feeling ice drop heavy and cool in his stomach.

Sherlock swallows and nods, but “You’ll wrinkle your trousers,” is his only reply, before he turns and retreats down the stairs.

“Shit,” he whispers, watching him go, and Liam gasps.

“Daddy, that’s a bad word,” he says just as quietly.

“I know, darling,” he sighs, pressing a kiss to his head. “Sometimes the situation calls for it, _but_ only - ”

“- when I’m older,” Liam grumbles, well beyond his scant four years. “I know.”

“Good lad,” John replies with a grunt as he stands and hikes Liam further up on his hip just as the doorbell rings. “That’ll be Abby.”

“Yay!” Liam yells despite his previous railings against the Toy Story marathon their usual minder has planned for the evening.

John carries him down the stairs and dumps him with an exaggerated grunt into Abby’s waiting arms.

“Hello, you,” she greets, accepting the hug he gives her with enthusiasm.

Sherlock watches with a fond smile from his place by the window. He chose Abby carefully out a stack of CV’s Mycroft had already pre-approved. She’s in her second year at Kings with a focus in Biology, and Liam is besotted with her.

They haven’t broken the news yet that they’re moving and John shares a look with Sherlock who nods solemnly. It’s time - Liam certainly won’t be able to keep his mouth shut, anyway.  They had tossed a coin to see who would be the one to spill the beans and Sherlock had lost.

He clears his throat and John should probably stick around for moral support, but they really are running late and his tux jacket is still in its garment bag hanging on their armoire.

“Abby, we have a bit of news…” he hears Sherlock begin as he makes his way down the hall and into the bedroom, pulling the jacket off its hanger.

“We’re moving!” Liam shouts a moment later, and John can’t help but snort. His son’s enthusiasm will no doubt wane when he realizes Abby is not joining them on their overseas adventure.

Sliding his braces beneath his waistcoat and laying the jacket on the bed, he glances at the dish on the dresser and steps closer, finding the cufflinks he wants and plucking them out with a smile.

 **J.W.**  
**S.H.**

Recalling his text message with Nate just the other day asking if he was available come October ( **Fucking finally!** was the enthusiastic reply in the affirmative), he picks up the silver hexagonal pieces and fastens his cuffs into place, remembering that time fondly.

Despite the threats and the bad press and the awards show hoopla, life seemed simpler then.

But then again, things never were going to be simple with Sherlock Holmes in his life.

_Four Weeks Earlier_

John turns his collar up against the wind that whips through the London streets as he makes his way down Shaftesbury Avenue. Mike’s office is snuggled in between the theatres and John ducks into a door just before he hits the Palace, straightening his hair as he nods at the security guard behind the desk.

“How are you, Jason?”

“Can’t complain, Mr. Watson.”

“Glad to hear.” He hits the button for the lift and presses 3 when he gets inside. It slides open to reveal a pair of glass doors, beyond which is a reception whose walls are covered floor-to-ceiling in window cards from various shows, television projects, and films that Mike’s clients have worked on. John alone must account for at least ¼ of them.

His office isn’t enormous - he and his business partner Elizabeth Carmichael are the only two agents - and they don’t take on more than they can chew, which is why John gets much of Mike’s undivided attention. Of course, it certainly helps that they’ve known each other since they were six.

“Hey, John!” the bubbly receptionist says as she buzzes him in.

“Morning, Hayley,” he replies with a smile, glad to see she hasn’t reverted back to ‘Mr. Watson’ - a habit it took months to break her out of. Jason, the security guard downstairs, is a lost cause. He’s been working there for over a decade and it’s still ‘Mr. Watson’ this and ‘Mr. Watson’ that. John finds it somewhat comforting by now.

Hayley hangs up the phone and says, “Blane’ll be out in a minute,” but John merely nods because he knows the drill by now. Sure enough, Mike’s assistant Blane pokes his blindingly blonde head through the second set of glass doors that separates reception from the rest of offices.

“Come on back, John.”

He offers Hayley a smile of thanks as he goes, wondering why his palms are all of a sudden sweaty. It’s just Mike. It’s just a meeting. One of hundreds they’ve had over the course of his career, and it’s not even about anything particularly earth-shaking.

“Get you a coffee or a cuppa?” Blane asks, interrupting his musings.

“Coffee would be brilliant, thanks.” He doesn’t bother telling him how he takes it. They know by now.  

They turn the corner and Blane gestures to Mike’s office before he turns to head for the kitchen in the back. John gives a perfunctory knock on the doorjamb and Mike leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, barking “You’re late,” with a smile.  

John rolls his eyes as he glances at his watch. “Excuse you. It’s 11:07am. You try being on time when you have a four-year-old who won’t stop sticking cereal up his nose.”

Mike chuckles and gestures to the brown leather sofa as he settles into one of the chairs facing it. John’s always loved Mike’s office. It’s full of memories and show memorabilia, accented with the kind of furniture you could curl up in on a rainy day with a blanket and a good book.

“How was the trip?” Mike asks and John smiles, thinking of Lu back in New York.

“Good. Exhausting, but really good.”

“I’m glad,” Mike says as Blane reappears and holds out a cup of coffee for John.

“Cheers, Blane.”

Mike waits for his assistant to leave once more before he levels John with a look. “So?”

“So - what?” John replies, playing dumb so he can take another sip of his desperately needed caffeine.

“Did you bring it up with Sherlock?”

John sighs and rubs at his forehead, cursing his clammy palms as he sets the cup on the table. “Yeah, I did.”

“And? C’mon, John, give me something. I’m dodging calls from Magnussen’s office daily.”

 _Magnussen._ John can’t help but wrinkle his nose at name. Though he’s never worked with the man, he’s heard rumors. But they can get back to that later -

“Actually, Sherlock practically threatened to divorce me if I didn’t take it.”

“Really?” Mike’s tone is surprised but John nods fervently. After all, Sherlock Holmes has always been his biggest fan.

“He knows how important this role is to me. I mean, I’ve wanted to do Sweeney Todd since I knew who Sondheim was, so… Yeah. To say he was enthusiastic is an understatement.”

“John,” Mike murmurs, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, “then why the hell do you look like someone killed your cat?”

“I hate cats.”

“John,” Mike barks and John slumps further into the cushions.

“It’s just - it wasn’t part of the plan.”

“Most career-shaping roles aren’t. Can you honestly tell me that, in the middle of A Little Night Music, you thought, ‘You know? I think I’ll give Shakespeare a go next.”

John snorts. “Touche.”

“I know you had a plan. I know you wanted London-only. But what can I tell you? Sweeney beckons.”

“Yeah,” John murmurs.

“Christ, John, show me a little enthusiasm. I can’t exactly call Magnussen back and say, ‘Oh yeah, your leading man is in but only mildly so.”

“Mike, you know how badly I want this. And I’m doing it - I am. There’s just…”

“Baggage,” Mike finishes for him and John nods. “How’d Irene take it?”

“Oh, you know Irene,” he chuckles, though it contains little humor, “melodramatically bemoaned the fact that her only client couldn’t take any jobs for the Sweeney run, which isn’t true,” he justifies. “We just try to stagger our shows so we aren’t neglecting Liam.”

“Makes sense,” Mike replies with the kind of carefully practiced cadence one garners when a certain topic has been broached multiple times. And the topic of John and Sherlock working at the same time has been broached many, _many_ times.

“But yeah, she’s laying it on a bit thick. Practically held a funeral for Sherlock’s career.”

Mike rolls his eyes at that and John knows why. Sherlock booked _Doctor Faustus_ on the heels of that BBC miniseries, so it’s been some time since John had a job that wasn’t just a reading or workshop or guest starring role in something during the day that would have him home in time for Sherlock to go to the theatre at night. It meant they never saw each other, but at least Liam had one of them.

“He’s had his turn,” Mike says after a careful moment, because the last thing he wants to do is play marriage counselor, John knows this - but John also knows he’s right.

He’s as supportive of his husband as possible, and they make all of their career decisions together, but he’s itching for the work. There’s a reason theatre got him out of the depression he was in after Afghanistan and he can feel that familiar restlessness begin to set in.

“Have they gone out to anyone else yet? Who do they want for Mrs. Lovett?”

Mike lowers his eyes and John’s hackles immediately go up.

“Mike,” he begins slowly. “Who do they want for Mrs. Lovett?”

His agent sighs as he stands and carefully closes the door, before turning and blurting out four words that positively _ruin_ John’s whole goddamn week:

“They want Mary Morstan.”

John gapes. “Absolutely fucking not.”

“I told them you’d say that.”

“Over my dead fucking body.”

“Told them you’d say that too.”

“You can’t be serious! Not after what she did to us. No fucking way.” He stands and paces the length of the room, fingers carding viciously through his hair.

“John - ”

“Mike, I know I’m not one of your demanding clients, but this is me. I’m demanding,” he grits out as he stops pacing and places his hands on his hips.

“It’s outta my hands, John.” His tone sounds utterly heartbroken and break John’s heart does as he flounders for words.

“Jesus,” he eventually laughs, collapsing on the sofa once more, tipping his head back and covering his face with his hands. “The role I’ve wanted for twenty years and it’s contingent on a woman who tried to ruin my life. _Our_ life,” he amends, thinking of Sherlock and the longest three days of his life when the man disappeared. “Fucking typical.”

“I managed to get them to give us another week before you have to officially answer. They know you’ve got to work out things for Liam.”

John swallows and nods and continues to stare at the ceiling. “Why is Magnussen so dead set on her?”

Mike shrugs. “They’ve worked together before.”

“But why _her_?” John whispers and if his voice breaks on the final word, well, Mike is kind enough not to call him out on it.

Instead, he steps forward and clasps John’s good shoulder, squeezing tightly. “The man has seven Tonys, eight Oliviers, four Baftas, and three Emmys. He wants what he wants.”

John bites his lip and clenches his left hand into a fist. “He’s a bit of a shark, isn’t he.” It’s not a question.

“Yeah,” Mike replies. “And you’re the demon barber of Fleet Street.”

_Now_

It’s raining. It’s always raining on the day of the Oliviers.

Sherlock rests his forehead against the window and sighs, watching his breath fog up the glass as they drive along the perimeter of Hyde Park on their way to the Royal Albert Hall. John is a silent ball of tension next to him and Sherlock can’t really fault him. He did drop a bomb on him not an hour ago.

Still, he wishes they would just talk. They stifled too much during _The Normal Heart_ and it nearly tore everything they had built asunder. Sherlock fears they’re going down the same path.

“Where are we meeting Irene?” John’s voice, rough from disuse, asks.

Sherlock doesn’t turn from the window as he replies, “At the bar.”

There’s a snort of laughter to his left and he can’t help but smile, secretly reveling in his ability to still make his husband laugh.

But, no, Irene will actually be meeting them at the bar. That’s fact, not fiction, though it’s probably in his best interest if he keeps John and Irene as far away from each other as possible. Given that one is his husband and the other his handler, that’s probably not likely so he pulls out his phone and he fires off a text, waiting for the ellipses that immediately appears to bring Irene’s response.

**Don’t push it tonight. - S.H.**

**You told him?**

**Yes. - S.H.**

**Took it that well, huh?**

**Still taking it, I think. - S.H.**

He slides the phone back into his pocket and glances up to find John watching him carefully as the car slows to join the queue depositing people on the red carpet.

“What?” he asks more hotly than he means to, but John just shakes his head and continues staring out the window.

“Nothing.”

This isn’t them. This isn’t what they do. They scandalize their child with how much they kiss in the living room, not give each other the silent treatment on one of the most important days of Sherlock’s career.

John’s right hand rests on the leather seat and Sherlock watches as the small piece of hexagonal silver catches what little light there is. His own initials mock him in return from John’s right wrist and Sherlock can’t help but huff out a laugh because that’s his husband all over: wearing his heart on his sleeve for all the world to see.

He reaches over and covers John’s hand with his own, feeling John’s gaze land on him once more.

“You ready to do this?” he quietly asks as they get closer and closer to the drop-off point.

John swallows and nods. “We’ve always been shit about pretending in front of the press.”

“Do we have to pretend?” His voice sounds small. Meek. Scared.  

John closes his eyes as if pained and leans in, gently nuzzling Sherlock’s cheek and ghosting his lips along his jaw. “Of course not. Regardless of what happens tonight, I’m so proud of you. And that will never change.”

It’s Sherlock’s turn to swallow thickly, pulling back enough to catch John’s gaze as he leans in and presses a chaste kiss to his lips just as his car door is pulled open.

“Good evening, Mr. Holmes. Lovely night for it,” an older gentleman greets as he holds an umbrella aloft so Sherlock can get out without getting drenched.

John’s door opens a moment later and someone has an umbrella for him as well. Sherlock steps up onto the kerb, squinting slightly in the lights and flashbulbs, and waits until John makes his way around the car to join him.

Their fingers slide together like the teeth of a zipper - easy, routine, secure - and Sherlock squeezes his hand and John squeezes back as they begin to make their way down the red carpet as one.

_Three Weeks Earlier_

Date nights are few and far between while Sherlock works, but John had asked while he was in New York, and though the initial topic John wanted to discuss has already been covered, something is clearly still eating at his husband.

It’s a Friday evening post-show and Liam is at a sleepover, his first, with a schoolmate named Tommy. Sherlock doesn’t know whether to be miffed that their son hadn’t called in tears to say he missed them or proud that he was clearly able to sleep somewhere other than home without fuss. Either way, Sherlock had come offstage to find John in his dressing room with his date night shoes on and a shy look on his face.

“Two weeks late, I know, but when have we ever done anything on time?” he had asked with a smile.

Sherlock skipped the stage door that night, allowing Timothy to sneak them out the back, and they walked the 15 minutes from The Barbican to The Duck and Waffle atop Heron Tower hand-in-hand.

“You planned all of this,” Sherlock murmurs as they exit the lift on the 40th floor and he stares at the floor to ceiling windows through which there is an _extremely_ impressive view.

“A bit, yeah,” John says as he gives his name to the hostess.

They’re led to a table just next to the window and John whistles lowly as he takes his seat and looks his fill of the glittering landscape below.

The hostess hands them two menus - the all day menu and the late night menu, which starts serving in just under 30 minutes. She turns to go, but pauses, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear as she blushes. “And - forgive me - but you both were absolutely wonderful in The Normal Heart.”

“Oh ta,” John replies, genuinely pleased as Sherlock manages a nod. The hostess smiles, before disappearing back to her stand by the door.

John buries his nose in the menu, but Sherlock can feel his foot tapping out a beat on the floor. He takes a sip of his water, eyeing his husband over the rim of the glass, before carefully placing it back on the table and resting his chin on his hands.

“Why are you nervous?”

John’s head snaps up. “I’m not nervous.”

“Yes, you are. You weren’t this fidgety on our first date.”

“Did we even have a first date?” he wryly replies.

“Sure, we did. Scarlatto. I’m hurt you don’t remember.”

John snorts his water. “Oh I remember. I remember yelling at you outside the rehearsal studio and you suggesting dinner because Greg told you to make ‘friends.’ I don’t recall anything about a date.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow as he considers their shared history. No, he supposes it wasn’t a date. At least not in the typical definition. John’s right, they never really had a first date. If anything, their first date unfolded over several weeks onstage, holding each other, comforting each other, kissing each other, learning each other.

“You’re dodging my question,” he says instead.

John sighs and pulls his napkin into his lap. “Can we at least order wine first?”

“Uh oh,” Sherlock replies and he manages to make it playful, but his stomach twists into knots. They’ve already had Lu asking about her father and the Sweeney Todd news. What now?

The waiter comes over to take their order and Sherlock finds himself ravenous despite the roiling of his stomach. Said waiter seems to be a fan, letting them split the difference and order bacon-wrapped dates from the late night menu and rib-eye for 2 from the all day. They pair it with a Valpolicella from Italy, and John barely gives it time to breathe before he’s taking a large gulp after the waiter places the bottle on the table.

“Easy does it, soldier,” Sherlock murmurs, gently swirling his glass and sniffing it before bringing it to his lips for a sip.

John flushes and places glass back on the table, watching the light from the candle cast maroon shadows on the white cloth.

“So what’s all this about? As much as I love dinners just the two of us, you clearly have an agenda.”

John clears his throat and leans back in his chair, gaze finding the Thames and watching the lights from the buildings dance on the water. “Not an agenda, per se. Just - news.”

“Oh?” Sherlock’s heart thumps faster.

“Yeah. I met with Mike last week - ”

“I remember.”

John finally glances at him. “Right. Well, we talked about the production. Magnussen is producing - ”

“He is?”

John pauses with a frown on his face. “Yeah, I told you that."

“No, no you didn’t,” Sherlock replies, hoping the creeping mania he feels doesn’t bleed through to his tone. “Trust me, I would have remembered that.”

“Oh.” John looks down. “I must have been planning on it but you deduced everything that night on the phone so, I guess it just slipped my mind.” He smiles, still amazed by Sherlock’s cleverness. “Why?”

He pauses and takes a sip of wine just to delay the inevitable. “He is not my biggest fan.” At John’s questioning look, he elaborates. “It was his production of Hedda Gabler that I had to drop out of when I went to rehab. Lost him quite a bit of money.”

“Oh. I didn’t realize.”

“I still find your lack of Broadway gossip knowledge endearing.”

John laughs. “I’m glad, considering you married me.”

“And…” he treads carefully, knowing he’s getting into dangerous currents, “Magnussen specifically asked for you?”

John shrugs. “Apparently.”

“Knowing you’re married to me?”

John’s eyes narrow and he tilts his head. It’s a look Sherlock has been on the receiving end of many times and it’s never ended well. “I would assume so.”

“Right.” He swallows and takes another sip of wine. “So - what’s the news?”

John sighs and wrinkles his nose as he plays with the edge of the tablecloth. “They want Mary for Mrs. Lovett.”

And Sherlock snaps the stem of his glass in two.

“Christ,” John blurts, reaching forward and taking hold of the top so they don’t spill wine all over the table. “Are you all right? Did you cut yourself?”

“No, no, I’m - I’m fine,” Sherlock manages, even as his ears ring. “I’m fine.”

Their waiter appears a moment later and takes the broken glass John is holding as a busboy carefully sweeps up any remaining shards. John is holding tight to Sherlock’s shaking hand and rubbing his thumb over his knuckles.

“Hey, talk to me.”

Sherlock swallows and nods, staring out the window so he doesn’t have to see the confirmation in John’s eyes. “I assume by ‘Mary’ you mean Mary Morstan.”

“Do we know another?” John replies rather morosely.

The waiter deposits a fresh glass of wine for Sherlock and tops up John’s while he’s at it.

“This is to get to me,” he murmurs without really thinking and he feels John’s grip on his hand tighten.

“Sorry?”

“Magnussen. He likes to utilize people’s pressure points and, if there’s one thing people know about me, it’s that you are mine.”

John lets go and leans back. “You think Magnussen cast me as the lead in his musical, handed me the role I’ve been dying to play for two decades, to get back at you? You’ll have to explain the logic of that to me because it seems beyond my comprehension at the moment.”

 _Fuck._ “Just - be careful - ”

“Sherlock, despite what the past year indicates, not everything is about you,” John snaps.

Silence. Absolute, deafening silence.

“Shit. Sorry, that was - shit.” John scrubs his face with his hands before letting them fall back to the table and rattle the cutlery.

But Sherlock merely leans over and takes John’s hand in his own, rubbing his knuckles just as he had done for him a moment before. “I know it… hasn’t been easy. Taking a backseat.”

“It was my choice.”

“Which you made for me. For Liam. For us. It’s time to make a choice for you. And I am behind you 100%.”

“Even if that means dealing with Mary Morstan again?”

Sherlock smiles, swallowing down the dread he feels. “Even if that means dealing with Mary Morstan again.”

John looks up at him with glassy eyes and brings his hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to his wrist, imitating that first move in that first rehearsal after they switched roles oh so long ago. “Thank you.”  

Sherlock nods and leans back as their bacon-wrapped dates get delivered and he spears one with glee before pointing his fork in his husband’s direction.

“I mean, you do kill her in the end. Could be therapeutic.”

John barks out a laugh so loud, it draws the attention of their fellow diners.

“Yeah, could be.”

 _Now_  

John fidgets in his seat, hating sitting in the front row at these sorts of things, but he and Sherlock are award show darlings by this point, loved both for their onstage work as well as their offstage romance, and so, whether nominated or not, they’re guaranteed to be placed in a prime camera location, much to John’s chagrin.

He watches as as the young sound designer from the hit new musical that no one can get a ticket to ascends the stairs and accepts the award for Best Sound Design from the cast of _Dreamgirls_.

“Try to look like you’re having fun,” Sherlock murmurs in his ear a moment later.

“I am,” John replies, slightly taken aback. It’s not like he had done anything to warrant the rebuke.

“I heard what you said to Liam,” Sherlock replies and John can’t help but roll his eyes.

“Because he’s four, Sherlock, and he doesn’t want his dads leaving him alone when he gets so little time with them both together as it is.”

It’s not meant to be a dig, but it is and Sherlock flinches as the words land.

“Will you two behave?” Irene hisses from Sherlock’s other side, before crossing her legs nearly Basic Instinct-style and causing the poor sod accepting his Olivier to drop the award with a loud clang.

They’re interspersing the acting and design categories to keep everyone on their toes, but John doesn’t realize Sherlock’s is next until Noma Dumezweni walks out to present. He automatically reaches over and takes Sherlock’s hand, because this is what they do when their category comes up. It’s not going to stop now just because one of them is being a pompous arse.

Sherlock isn’t the odds on favorite to win - that honor is reserved for Bill Nighy from James Graham’s newest, but John’s holding out hope because he’d be a shit partner if he didn’t. Besides, he saw Sherlock’s Doctor Faustus. If he were actually capable of summoning fire and brimstone, he would have.

Noma steps up to the microphone and offers a smile in the direction of all the nominees. The fact that she can find them all in that blinding light has to be some kind of magic.

“And the nominees for Best Actor are,” she pauses, allowing for applause as she reads off each name. John tunes her out as lovely as her voice is, only snapping back to attention when she gets to “Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Faustus.” John smiles and releases Sherlock’s hand so he can clap and he’s pretty sure the besotted expression on his face can’t be helped. It’s fine. They should all be used to it by now.

“And the Olivier goes to… Bill Nighy, _Lighthouse._ ”

Applause erupts around them and John squeezes his hand, but Sherlock’s profile remains frozen in a soft smile, letting go of John so he can clap politely.

Fuck.

_Two Weeks Earlier_

“Love, come down here please!” John calls, waiting for the telltale thumps that indicate Liam is making his way across his bedroom, which is littered with detritus from the truck set Mycroft bribed him with to get him to behave at 10 Downing.

It’s the first ‘sit down, we have to talk’ chat they’ve had with their boy other than ‘don’t eat dirt’ and ‘no hitting on the playground.’ Sherlock looks like he’s about to vomit, perched in his chair like a gargoyle of Notre Dame, but John knows that Liam is young enough. He’ll bounce back from such a big move relatively quickly.

Liam appears in the doorway a moment later after his careful trek down the stairs (hand on the railing always) and bounces over to John, jumping in midair and knowing his father won’t let him hit the ground.

“No more mid-afternoon sweeties for you,” John murmurs, pressing a kiss to his head as he carries him over to Sherlock, who lowers his legs at the last moment so John can deposit their son in his lap.

“But sweeties are so good,” Liam whines, and John shares a look with Sherlock over his head. Yeah, he’ll crash in less than thirty minutes, sleeping off the sugar high.

“We have something to tell you - ” Sherlock begins and Liam’s eyes immediately go wide.

“Are you getting ‘vorced?”  

“I beg your pardon?” Sherlock asks as John sits down heavily on the coffee table across from them.

“Tommy’s mommy and daddy are getting ‘vorced. His daddy doesn’t live at home anymore.”

 _Oh God._ John stares at Sherlock and he has a feeling that the look of horror on his husband’s face is reflected on his own.

“No, sweetheart, we’re not getting _di_ vorced.”

“Oh. Good,” Liam says brightly, all worry gone. “I want us all to live here.”

_Shit._

Sherlock rolls his eyes and stares at the ceiling and John can only shake his head because of _course_ the son of Sherlock Holmes would say precisely the right thing at the precisely the wrong time.

“See, that’s kind of what we want to talk about…” But John trails off and licks his lips as Sherlock, bless him, jumps in.

“Daddy got a job in America.”

Liam’s eyes narrow and he looks so much like the man whose lap he’s perched upon that John gasps. But then that little lower lip starts to wobble and John’s heart just _shatters_.

“Daddy, you’re going to America?”

“Only if you’re coming with me,” he replies, leaning forward and cupping his son’s cheek.

“Papa too?”

“Of course Papa too,” Sherlock haughtily replies, giving Liam a squeeze around the middle for good measure.

John nods and drops his hand but only so he can take hold of Liam’s ankle where it dangles over Sherlock’s knee. “We’re going to move to New York for a while. We’ll still keep this flat, but New York will be home for the time being.”

“New York?” Liam shrieks as he clambers to kneeling, causing Sherlock to groan as he gets a limb in the groin. “Where Aunt Harry and Aunt Clara live?”

“Yes, love - ”

“And Lu too?”

“And Lu too."  

Their boy is staring back and forth between them eyes wide and mouth agape before he shouts, “That’s the best news ever!”

“Darling, do you understand what we’re saying?” John urges, tempering Liam’s excitement. “We won’t live here anymore. You’ll - you’ll go to a new school, make new friends. Papa and I will make sure you stay in touch with your old ones, but… we won’t be coming back for a while.”

“Okay,” Liam says simply and John shakes his head. Oh to be four again.

“Okay?”

“Uh huh.” He’s playing with the button on Sherlock’s cuff and John raises an eyebrow at his husband, but Sherlock can only shrug back.

Is it truly that easy?

“Is Abby coming?” Liam asks suddenly, ah yes, the other shoe drops.

“No, darling, Abby has to stay here and finish uni,” he gently says.

Sherlock, though, looks intrigued and John narrows his eyes.

“No, absolutely not. We are not convincing our babysitter to transfer universities simply so she can watch our son.”

“Worth a shot,” his husband mumbles as Liam wiggles and slides down to the floor.

“So I can bring all of my toys, right?”

“No!” he and Sherlock immediately chorus together.

Well, John thinks, at least they’re on the same page about some things.

_Now_

The vodka soda bites as Sherlock gulps it down, standing nearly nose to nose with the skeletal reproduction of a velociraptor. The Natural History Museum seems like an odd choice for an after-party, but options are slim near The Royal Albert Hall. The last time he went to the Oliviers, they were held at The Royal Opera House at Covent Garden, which wasn’t lacking for posh hotels to choose from for an after-party venue. Sure, the lights have been dimmed to a low red and pop-up bars dot the halls, but it still doesn’t change the fact that some poor maintenance worker is going to be pulling panties off the stegosaurus skeleton come morning.

He watches as John converses with a couple of his old castmates from _My Fair Lady_ across the room and Sherlock rolls his eyes as he smells Irene before he sees her.

“Puttin’ it on a little thick there with the Chanel,” he drawls.

“Better than Grey Goose and self-pity,” she replies, sidling up to him and clinking her martini glass against his. “You had a good run. The streak was bound to break eventually.”

And it’s true. The last three Oliviers he’s been nominated for, he’s won. No one can keep up that kind of luck forever. The Tonys are a bit more scrutinizing. He has two on his mantle so far, both for shows he’s done with John. But after _The Normal Heart_ , they decided to try surrogacy and when Liam came along, they sold the flat on the Upper West Side and London became their permanent home. John went back when Liam was two for another season of Shakespeare in the Park, but that ended in tears all around. They haven’t gone back for any significant amount of time since.

Until now.

Sherlock sighs as he looks at his husband, head thrown back in laughter as Tim Minchin tells him what can only be an incredibly naughty joke.

“He looks happy,” Irene murmurs.

“Now,” is Sherlock’s stilted reply.

“Maybe springing it on him as he put on his tux for the Oliviers was not the best way to go.”

Sherlock takes another sip of his vodka and shrugs. It’s a pathetic thing. “He needed to know.”

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, for an award-winning actor, your timing is shit.”

“Thank you, Irene. Your pep-talks are always just what the doctor ordered.”

“Oh don’t be like that. So you lost the Olivier. You threw a wrench in your husband’s plans to return to the Broadway stage with the role of a lifetime. You somehow thought it would be a good idea to pair this tie with that collar. Things can only go up from here.”

“Oh piss off,” he says hotly, but he has to put his empty drink down on a passing waiter’s tray if only so he doesn’t lose his grip on the glass.

“Below the belt?” she asks softly, placing her hand on his back and feeling his ribs stutter as his lungs try to take in breath.

“Yes… but entirely accurate,” is his simple reply.

“Thought so.” Her voice is sad. Placating. Hateful. “Now, I have a hot date with a gorgeous young thing from accounting. I expect a full report in the morning. I don’t care how hungover you are.”

“Getting there,” Sherlock says, eyeing the bar and wondering if it’s worth waiting in line for another vodka or if he should just switch to champagne and grab a glass from the waiter making eyes at him across the way.

“And, Sherlock?”

“What?” he snaps, sobering when he catches sight of the sincerity on her face.

“Go easy on him tomorrow.”

He scoffs, but it gets lodged in his throat as he faces the very real fear in front of him. “And what if he doesn’t go easy on me?”

“Oh honey,” Irene sighs, cocking her head as if speaking to a child, “as if you didn’t hang the stars in his sky.”

She disappears with a wink and he watches her go, emerald green dress practically spray-painted on. His gaze finds John once more, but he’s no longer laughing in a circle of friends and colleagues, no longer the center of attention as only a man with his kind of charm and charisma would naturally be.

No, he’s leaning against a marble column, staring at the floor, feet crossed at the ankle. The drink that he’s been nursing all night is held limply in his right hand as he twists (unconsciously or not) his wedding band around the finger of his left with his thumb.

The sight unmoors something in Sherlock. It rocks him to his core.  

John is the stable one. The grounded one. Sherlock flits around like a human hurricane, but John is the eye. The one who doesn’t run away when the press gets bad or turn to illegal substances when maniacal exes come calling. To see his former soldier looking so… lost, so dejected, unnerves him in ways he can’t quite quantify.

They can do this. They can make it work.

He sighs as he gets in line for another vodka.

They have to.

_One Week Earlier_

Sherlock runs his fingers through his curls as he makes his way down D'Arblay St in Soho, turning into the French restaurant with the pale green facade tucked in between the brick buildings that Greg had recommended.

Despite (shockingly) being on time, his oft-times director has still beaten him, sitting at a hightop table next to the tiled wall and beckoning him over.

“You could have picked somewhere closer,” Sherlock gripes as he takes the seat across from Greg and hooks his sunglasses onto his button-down shirt.

“And good afternoon to you, too,” Greg drawls. “And excuse you, this is Soho. It’s a hell of a lot closer to Baker Street than it is to The National where I happen to be working. You’re welcome.”

Sherlock quirks a smile and takes a sip of his water, burying his nose in the menu and going for nonchalance. “Why the clandestine meeting?”

“It’s broad daylight. I’d hardly call it clandestine.”

He looks up and raises an eyebrow. Greg shifts uncomfortably and stares at the menu once more. _Interesting._

“So, everyone’s on board with the move?”

“Seems to be,” Sherlock replies. “Liam is ecstatic. John is less so.”

“Why? It’s his dream job.”

“I told him about Magnussen and I think he’s now just waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under him. The only one we haven’t gotten a hold of is Mrs. Hudson. Where is she, by the way? Haven’t heard from her in weeks.”

“She’s building a house in South Carolina,” Greg replies. “Didn’t she tell you?”

“Why the hell would she go and do that?”

“Have you been to South Carolina?”

“No.”

“Bloody gorgeous.” Greg shrugs. “She wanted a place to escape to from the city. She’s been down there while it’s being finished, giving the general contractor hell.”

Sherlock chuckles. “Good for her.”

Greg places his elbows on the table and carefully slides his fingers together. Something is still off, but Sherlock lets it pass. “Is Doctor Faustus moving?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “They don’t think they’ll find an American audience. If it transfers, unlikely though it is, even with the nominations, it’ll go somewhere like BAM or the Armory. Not Broadway. Which is fine with me what with John doing Sweeney.”

Greg scratches the back of his neck, wincing slightly and putting Sherlock immediately on edge. “Funny you should say that…” he begins in a way that suggests there’s nothing humorous about it at all.

“Funny how?” he asks slowly. Greg sighs and drops his hand back to his lap.

“I was just approached to do Richard III.”

And the penny drops.

“Richard III.”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“You know where,” is Greg’s quiet reply.

“Fuck,” he whispers, resting his elbows on the table and dropping his head into his hands.

“The producers want _you_. And frankly, _I_ want you. I’d be working with you now, but you’re too damn old for Henry V.”

“Thanks,” Sherlock grumbles, before taking a shaky breath. “They really want me?”

“Well, after Macbeth, you’re no longer the investment poison you once were. People are clamoring for you. They want to bring Mrs. Hudson in as a partner, but don’t say anything. They haven’t approached her yet.”

Sherlock feels like a rock has been dropped in the pit of his stomach. “We promised each other, Greg.”

The director that is single-handedly responsible for the career he’s been given looks at him compassionately. “Sherlock, it’s Richard III.”

“I’m well aware!” he snaps.

"What's the problem?” Greg argues. “You've been dying to get back to Shakespeare, particularly on Broadway, and don't tell me Richard III hasn't been at the top of your bucket list. I know it has. You printed it out in triplicate ten years ago."

Sherlock shakes his head. “We promised each other. We’d take turns and this is his turn. He’s waited long enough.”

“Sherlock,” Greg begins quietly, gravely, “do not make me hire someone who isn’t you.”

He stares at his hands, hands that have been molded by drama school and rehab, that have touched the stages of Broadway and the West End, that have held Olivier Awards and Tony Awards and John Watson’s heart and the squirming, squalling bundle that became their son.

Their son, who takes priority above all else, sometimes even each other.

“I have to talk to John.”

_Now_

John’s feet are aching as he toes off his shoes and slides the braces off his shoulders. He’s far more sober than he’d like to be but he has a feeling that he’ll need to be sharp in the morning.

Actually, he knows he will.

Sherlock is sitting on the bed, quietly untying his laces and pulling off his socks. John heads for the loo and murmurs, “I’m sorry about the loss, love,” as he passes by, running his fingers through those curls as Sherlock hums and bumps his hand in reply.

He brushes his teeth and tries not to look at his reflection too closely. The past few weeks have been a veritable rollercoaster with news first of Sweeney and Victor and then Magnussen and Mary -

And now this.

They’ve survived worse but it’ll be work. A lot of work.

He heads into the bedroom and walks around to his side, pulling the covers back and sliding in with a groan. Sherlock must have gone into the kitchen because he’s not here, or perhaps he’s checking on Liam.

John turns onto his side and closes his eyes, listening to Sherlock padding across the floor above him, then his gentle steps on the stairs (minding the creaky one), and then slowly sliding the loo door closed before running the water.  

John dozes, but wakes when he feels the dip on the other side of the bed as Sherlock settles.

“John?” comes the small whisper a moment later.

“We’ll work it out tomorrow, Sherlock,” he replies. Not harshly or snappishly. Just simply.

And then, because John needs to touch him, to feel him, to _connect_ with him, he reaches back and takes hold of Sherlock’s arm, pulling it across his body so he’s cocooned in Sherlock’s embrace, back to front.

“I love you,” he murmurs and only then does he realize it’s the first time either of them has said it all day.

“I love you too,” is the quiet reply.

John falls asleep thinking of their conversation from earlier that day and dreams of barbers and kings, London then and London now, and of his husband, resplendent in a golden crown.

What a sight it is.

_Six Hours Earlier_

“John! Have you seen my socks?” Sherlock calls from the bedroom and John snorts as he irons his shirt in the kitchen.

“Did you look in your sock drawer? I thought you had an index.”

Sherlock’s head pokes around the door a moment later, eyes narrowed. “Don’t be smart.”

“But it turns you on when I’m smart,” he cheekily replies.  

Those narrowed eyes darken and his husband clears his throat before disappearing back into their room, John’s low chuckles following him the whole way.

Unplugging the iron and placing it to cool on the counter out of reach from curious four-year-olds, he pads over to the living room and begins searching around. Liam has a habit of hiding things that are necessary to their departure when he doesn’t want them to leave. And sure enough, he finds one of his husband’s wayward socks stuffed in between the cushions of the sofa.

Little devil.

Sock in hand, he makes his way back to their bedroom, hoping none of his own items have gone missing.

“Here, I found one of - ” but he cuts himself off when he comes into their room to find Sherlock sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock replies, standing up and trying to move past him.

“No, no, not nothing. Talk to me.”

“It can wait.”  

“Sherlock.”

“John.”

He huffs and presses his palms to Sherlock’s chest, keeping him in place. “Come on. This is your day and I’ll not have anything spoil it.”

Sherlock smiles sadly and John feels the large inhale he takes, the steady thump of his heart, and the anxiety that seems to run through his veins. This can’t be good.

“Greg wants me for Richard III,” he blurts out and John’s hands move from his chest to his sides, holding him tightly.

“Wha- Seriously? That’s amazing! You’ve wanted that for years! Where?”

But Sherlock doesn’t look happy. In fact, he looks downright stricken. “New York.”

And as Sherlock’s expression falls, so does the hope in John’s chest. “When?”

But he already knows the answer.

“It opens this fall. Two weeks after Sweeney Todd.”

John swallows, tongue feeling thick in his mouth.

“Oh.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> \- Sweeney Todd is a 1979 musical written by Stephen Sondheim with a book by Hugh Wheeler. It was also made into a movie directed by Tim Burton starring Johnny Depp, Helena Bonham Carter, and Alan Rickman in 2007. We're going to be hearing a lot about it so I suggest perhaps a glance at Wikipedia. If not, just know it's a revenge musical set in 1846 London where a guy (Sweeney) murders people with shaving razors in an attempt to get back at the nefarious Judge Turpin who ruined his life. Basically, it's right up Sherlock's alley. The opening lyrics of the opening song are "Attend the tale of Sweeney Todd," hence the title of this piece.  
> \- Just a reminder that Schmackary's is the best cookie place in New York City. 9th Ave and 45th St. You won't be disappointed.  
> \- The Duck and Waffle is a real restaurant on top of Heron Tower. If any of you have watched The Wine Show on Hulu (you MUST) it's featured in one of the episodes in season one.  
> \- Noma Dumezweni won the Olivier (and hopefully the Tony) for playing Hermione in Harry Potter and the Cursed Child.  
> \- James Graham wrote the plays Ink and Martin's Labour of Love.  
> \- I hope we all know who Bill Nighy is.  
> \- The restaurant where Greg and Sherlock eat is real. It's called Blanchette. Never been, but it looks adorable.  
> \- BAM is the Brooklyn Academy of Music. It frequently hosts transfers of British works. The Armory is the Park Avenue Armory and they too frequently host works from across the pond. I saw the RSC do Romeo and Juliet here. It was stunning.


End file.
